The Fourth Musketeer is an English translation of a French
biography of Dumas called La vie d'Alexandre Dumas pÃ¨re published in 1928.

THE FOURTH
MUSKETEER

THE FOURTH
MUSKETEER

THE LIFE OF ALEXANDER DUMAS

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH OFJ. LUCAS-DUBRETON
BY MAIDA CASTELHUN DARNTON

COWARD-McCANN, INC.
NEW YORK ° MCMXXVII

COPYRIGHT, 1928, BY COWARD-MCCANN, INC.ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

PRINTED IN THE U. S. A.

TO MY FRIEND CLERGEAU

CAPTAIN OF A SHIP

WHO, DURING HIS CRUISES IN THE PACIFIC,
LEARNED "THE THREE MUSKETEERS" BY HEART.

J. L.-D.

FOREWORD

Michelet wrote to the elder Dumas: "Monsieur, I love you and I admire you because you are one of the forces of nature."
He used the right phrase. The ideology, the social themes, and the ethical problems dear to the younger Dumas play no part in his father's life. That life expresses itself solely on the plane of action and of instinctâhence its characteristic violence of tone, boldness of gesture, serene assurance, and innocent gaiety.

POLYXÃNE DAVY DE LA PAILLETERIE, wife of the Chevalier de Salmon, lord of La Brosse, was on bad terms with her husband and at his instigation was shut up in 1703 in the Convent of the Madeleine at La FlÃ¨che. But on the death of the lord of La Brosse, she immediately made her escape and went away to live in Paris. After eleven years' imprisonment she meant to enjoy her freedom.
She enjoyed it thoroughly, but not after the manner of a person of rank, and she behaved so recklessly that, when she had spent her last sou she was stranded in a furnished room "next door to an old woman of very bad repute."
The father of PolyxÃ¨ne who owned a manor in Normandy and prided himself on belonging to a noble familyâa Davy had been the king's ambassador to Switzerland in the sixteenth centuryâcould not put up with his daughter's ways and ordered her back to the convent; but PolyxÃ¨ne was in no mood to return. She preferred the freedom of her furnished room to a pious cell, no matter how arranged for the use of great ladies. To make her listen to reason her father asked for a "lettre de cachet" from the Regent, the way of that time for hushing up the scandals in the families of the great. On December 12, 1716, the impetuous PolyxÃ¨ne was led back, under custody, to the Convent of la FlÃ¨che. What became of her afterwards no one knows. But the fact worth noting is that this father who had his daughter imprisoned was without doubt the great-great-grandfather of the author of The Three Musketeers.

He had long dreamed of visiting the Orientâafter ChÃ¢teaubriand and Lamartine, Dumas!âand he had had constructed at Syra a little schooner with a bridge, manned by two sailors. But before sailing he was curious to see Garibaldi, the hero of the day, he who was to free Italy. He went to Tunis, and there in a little room of the HÃ´tel de l'Europe, he found himself before the famous soldier of fortune. Garibaldi was at that time a rather tall man, with a large forehead, a high-colored face, hair like that of a blond beast falling to his neck and "a serene, smiling mouth, framed by a reddish beard." Alexander was carried away by this courageous, resolute d'Artagnan, whose like one did not meet on the boulevards. Returning to Paris to recruit companions for his voyage, for he could not endure solitude, he persuaded Paul Parfait and Lockroy without much difficulty and on May 16, 1859, Captain Dumas, commander of the schooner Emma, embarked at Genoa.
There he learned that Garibaldi was marching on Palermo and at once the Orient was forgotten. An epic poem was in the making. He felt he must take part as he had taken part in the Revolution of 1830 and the insurrection of 1832.
He sailed for Sicily, disembarked at Melazzo, entered Palermo in the train of Garibaldi, was saluted as an ambassador, was present at the proclamation of the dictator, and prepared to clear the straits. But arms and ammunition were needed by the army of emancipation; and Alexander put his fortune of 50,000 francs at Garibaldi's disposal, started off for Marseilles, purchased guns and cartridges and returned to Naples, by way of Salerno, where he was received to the ringing of bells, to await his hero.
On September 7, 1860, the latter made his entrance into the city, clad in a red shirt and sitting high up on a carriage; Alexander sat behind him, triumphant because the Bourbons of Naples, his father's tormentors, had taken flight. In recognition of his services Garibaldi appointed him director of Fine Artsâan office materially gratuitousâand assigned him as residence the little palace of Chiatamone, on the shore of the sea. And now you see Alexander changed into a scholar. He who had learned history well since his visit to the pope now thought of nothing less than bringing all antiquity to the light of day with the pickaxe, wanted to have savants come from Parisâquite like Napoleonâand asked King Victor Emmanuel for a company of sappers to assist him. He no longer concerned himself with politics, but with Pompeii, the villa of Diomedes, the theater, and the forum. "Hic jacet felicitas" he said, pointing out the inscription carved on a house of the dead city. What joy it would be to liberate ruins, not peoples! And he laughed aloud with that fine, sonorous laugh which struck the ear, and "toward which people ran as if to a fair." For this gentle giant, "amiable in the original sense of the word," this naif being in whom life overflowed, who could talk ten hours on end and be as fresh as at the first word, who was as violent as a volcano and had such wit that all his listeners felt witty too, this Dumas attracted the Neapolitans; and to keep this popularity which had become a necessity to him, Alexander founded a journal, L'Independente, the organ of M. Dumas in the service of United Italy.
But he could not remain in one place long; the wind blew, and carried him away. . . . One day Prince Lubomirski found him in an hotel in Turin, stretched out on a sofa, his open shirt showing his chest. Alexander's large face grew radiant; he recounted his adventures and his glories. "People maintain that I'm vain. They say that my son accuses me of sitting at the back of my carriage to make them think that I have a Negro servant. He's too good a son for that." Then, without any connection, he called, "Hey! Admiral!"
A clear voice answered, "Are you calling me?"
"Yes, come in."
"In two minutes. I'm dressing. . . ."
And then a street urchin appeared, dark, beardless, frisky, dressed like a sailor, and wearing a cap with gold braid. And Dumas explained that "The admiral is clearing up my blue paper, scratched over with my writing which I never correct. We are writing The Memoirs of Garibaldi together." Then, tenderly embracing the boy who leaned against his shoulder, he added, "Oh! she renders me all sorts of services!"She was Emilie Cordier, or Admiral Emile, since 1859 the great passion of Dumas, who introduced her now as his son, again as his daughter, according to her dress. She had formerly been one of the Emma's crew, but since she had born a daughter, Micaela, in Paris of whom Garibaldi was godfather, she no longer followed the sea and retained only her uniform. . . .
At Naples Dumas, as intimate adviser, obtruded on Garibaldi and as he presumed to divine the will of the people, he suddenly showed his good, frightened face in the hall of the Council of War, crying, "Il popolo se riscalda!" ("The people are growing cold!")
"Che se riscalda!" ("Let them grow cold!") answered the condottiere, annoyed. Dumas was himself to have a depressing experience of Neapolitan fickleness.
Still in a revolutionary mood, the people of Naples thought it wrong that a foreigner should occupy a position of honor among them and one evening organized a demonstration before the Chiatomone palace. Dumas was at table, laughing uproariously; he pricked his ears: "Is there, then, a demonstration this evening? Against whom? Against what? What more do they want? Haven't they their Italia Una?" But the demonstrators, preceded by a big drum, Chinese bells, and a flag with the colors of Italy, howled: "Fuori straniero! Out with the foreigner! Overboard with Dumas! Out with Dumas!"
In five minutes they were dispersed, but Alexander was wounded to the soul; with his head between his hands, he wept. "I was accustomed to the ingratitude of France, but I did not expect that of Italy. . . . " Then, shrugging his shoulders, he added "Bah! the people of Naples are like other peoples. To expect a nation not to be ungrateful is to ask wolves to be vegetarians! It's we who are simple to weary ourselves so for this sort of people. . . . It's labor lost, money wasted."
Not long after he was present at King Victor Emmanuel's entry into Naples. Not one Garibaldian, not a red shirt was among the troops in the welcoming lines. "They are less fortunate than Jeanne d'Arc's standard," remarked Alexander, "they had the pains but none of the honor. Well, one must do the right thing and forget the reward."
In order to dispel his disenchantment, his friends arranged a big dinner for him, led him in triumph to Pompeii, and then to the chase in the park of Capo-di-Monte; but Alexander remained morose and talked of sailing away on the Emma for Tripoli on the Barbary Coast.

Fate decided otherwise. In October, 1862, he received a letter from the GrÃ¦co-Albanian Council in London asking him to do for Athens and Constantinople what he had accomplished for Palermo and Naples. It said God had reserved for Albania, the only warlike province of the Ottoman Empire, the task of putting an end to the dying power of the Turks. The Albanians invited as leader Alexander Dumas, who would thus take his place "in the Pantheon of contemporary humanity." The letter was signed by the Prince of Skandenberg, a descendant of the famous sixteenth century warrior.
A few days later, two letters came saying that the Prince of Skandenberg was not conspiring for the throne of Greece, but felt inclined to put it under Italian power. They counted on Dumas to begin negotiations with the Italian government, to establish a depot for materials of war in the peninsula, and to place a part of the GrÃ¦co-Albanian loan. This done, "the King of Italy could in turn place his valiant dynasty on the throne of Constantine, just as Dumas and Garibaldi had placed him on the throne of the Bourbons."
The letters began with "My dear Marquis" and exalted "the far-sightedness and experience both in politics and in history" of Garibaldi's friend. Alexander's head was turned. At last the opportunity had come for his genius to blossom, to turn events, and to enter into true glory. A soldier of fortune? Why not? He would emancipate Greece, strike the Turks unto death, and extend the benefits of civilization to these barbarous provinces.
He did not wish to go too far at first but offered his schooner at once to the Prince of Skandenberg. His Highness thanked the dear Marquis, and as one courtesy was deserving of another, offered him the title of "General in charge of the Superintendence of Military Depots in our Christian Army of the Orient." "Will you grant me the pleasure of allowing me to sign your commission?" graciously wrote His Highness in conclusion.
As Alexander did not care to accept the rank of general for fear of caricaturing his father's career, the prince called his attention to the fact that he was a poet and that "the sword and the pen are sisters." But the prince respected his scruples and begged him only to choose "the branch which he wished to enterâthe civil or the military." Dumas ended by accepting the duties while refusing the rank, and the prince asked him to send information about the state of the public mind at Naples. It was necessary to proceed quickly, for with the council ready and the general staff complete, they awaited only the right moment to proceed to Durazzo. The letter this time bore a beautiful stamp with an escutcheon and the inscription: "Higher Command of the Christian Army of the Orient."
Dumas set to work on a report to the prince on the state of mind of the Neapolitans. "The council must not send a single pistol without the authorization of the Italian government nor before I have gone to Turin to request this authorization." Meanwhile, he gave the price of the arms that he had bought for Garibaldi: Lefaucheuz or Devismes, of the best quality, at 80 francs, with 100 cartridges. Arming the schooner, would cost a matter of 16,000 francs. And he signed himself: "Your Royal Highness' very humble and very obedient servant. Februarys, 1863."
It was a grand undertaking! Garibaldi's lieutenant would now be lieutenant to the Prince of Skandenberg, one of the greatest names in the history of Central Europe. Dumas, the novelist, Dumas the dramatist, would now be Dumas, the warrior and the emancipator. What a sensation there would be on the boulevards! Then, one fine day. Signor Silvio Spaventa, chief of police of Naples, sent for Alexander and told him that the pseudo-Prince of Skandenberg was a trickster, an intriguer born in Apulia in Cerignola or Canossa.
Dumas did not spread this painful story abroad. It was a terrible blow to him. Then Fate crossed him a second time for Admiral Emile, for whom he felt a special attachment, confessed a weakness of the flesh. Although he practiced an indulgent philosophy, he suffered. "I pardon you," he wrote to her, "because you had no intention of hurting me. An accident has occured in our life, that is all. This accident has not destroyed my love; I love you as much as ever; only I now love you as one loves something lost, something dead, a ghost."
Some time after, Victor Emmanuel's police picked a quarrel with him about his journal, L'Independente. It was the last straw. Disgusted with the Neapolitans, with dictators, and with heroes of other days, fallen from the heights of his dream, Dumas left Italy.

The dream of his old age has come to pass. A few years before his death he regretted that he had neglected himself in his narrative, that he had presented himself inadequately to his readers, as if d'Artagnan, Monte-Cristo, Chicot, and ever so many others were not always Dumas! He wanted, he said, "to become a living being, palpable, and mingling in the lives of those whose hours he filled, in short, something like a friend."
Now, when you cross the threshold of a million houses, he is settled at the hearth and has become one of the family. He is father Dumas, a good giant who is not pedantic, nor involved, nor complicatedâa beneficent genius, harmless and without baseness, who in all of his Bohemian life has never cost his country a drop of blood.
The younger Dumas tells us that one evening, coming unexpectedly on his father, he saw that his face was distorted and that his eyes were red.
"You have been crying. What is the matter?" he asked.
"A great sorrow. Porthos is dead. I have just killed him. I couldn't help crying over him. Poor Porthos!" When one has to kill father Dumas, one feels a little of this same sorrow.